my story. to come out.
2020. The year of clear vision. My year of truth.
I guess it was like the first time that I wore my glasses in middle school history class.
I couldn’t make out the small words on the board to take notes from, the blurry edges and apostrophes blending into themselves.
The more that I focused my gaze through the lens, all those little things that didn’t line up, started to adjust.
The moments that made me feel misfit or inadequate.
More specifically, the lack of feeling growing up — the feeling of not being wanted because I did not want anyone else.
Because I was told indirectly by everyone around me that if I talked to this boy, I was therefore important and enough.
Except I didn’t like any boys and by the time I was a junior in college, I presume I’d had enough of this intense feeling of lack.
It was no longer a matter of not seeing, but choosing not to see.
It was a process of shedding.
The shedding of a blurred skin that was fostered from years and years of concealment. Of covering.
Of being afraid.
I could never say it. You’re too quiet Halie. You never speak up for yourself. Say something.
Of squinting my eyes so tightly together that all I could make out was the darkness. Like staring into the sun and being blinded by the truth of it all. You can only keep them shut for so long before the flashes of color burn vividly through the exterior of your eyelids.
Why are you doing this? What’s the point? You’re not Ellen, your story isn’t that important. Who do you think you are? Your ‘friends’ will make fun of you for writing about this later on down the line. What if (insert random person here from 6th grade who might read this and see it on Facebook,) yea that person, what if they see it, what will they think? Why do you have to broadcast it, you’re being hypocritical about labels.
Well guess what. It’s my story and I’d like to share it.
So that little voice in my head, can silence itself now.
Yep, even writing that little blurb was exhausting, but I included it in the first paragraph to show the truth about writing this. As I wrote those three words ‘coming out story,’ it slowly began to trigger the younger version of myself who used to look up coming out videos on YouTube to make herself feel somewhat valid.
Were my feelings real? I was too young to know who I was. I didn’t know any better.
I’d sit there in my bed, late at night, looking up coming out stories, watching Rose and Rosie videos on YouTube (an openly gay couple who seemed ‘normal’ to me.) I would laugh to myself under the covers, while unbeknownst to me, were blankets and blankets of worries, fears, and negative thoughts about coming out myself.
If you haven’t guessed from the title, yes, I’m gay.
There I said it, so it must now be true. Writing it out.
Setting it in stone.
Stating it as my truth.
Let’s begin with a little analyzation of the plot.
There’s no straight beginning or an end [no pun intended.]
It’s not linear.
It’s an ongoing possession of memories,
intermingling with current moments.
Hence, there wasn’t an a-ha moment.
It wasn’t a specific flash in time that captured the infamous “coming out of the closet” for me.
The light streaming into the closet wasn’t luminous and bright, sometimes it wasn’t seen at all, at other times it was muted by dulled shadows.
Other times were dark.
Pitched black.
I seemed to be sitting there, hunched over, waiting for that perfect moment to rise.
To see the light.
When the rainbows cascaded through the cracks in the ceiling and dripped onto my shoulder blades, coloring me in truth and prosperity – overflowing my body with abundance and love.
I’d imagined myself rising up into the clouds and shouting my truth to the world while onlookers bowed and threw confetti at my feet.
Except, it wasn’t quite like that.
Instead, it was a thread of instances – flashes in time that stopped me in my tracks – that made me question the young woman looking back at me in the mirror each morning.
She was a perfectionist.
She got straight A’s through school, accepted a scholarship for basketball, and pursued her talents in art.
She was independent. She never dated. She didn’t ‘need’ anyone.
I presume they were right. No, I did not. It was not a matter of ‘needing’ anyone.
I did not need someone to love me
– but I did need her –
I soon realized that I needed to love her more than anyone else
– her being myself.
My story isn’t about falling for someone who changed it all for me,
although there were a few of significant impact.
It’s about my journey of self-acceptance.
It’s about learning to love the woman in the reflection
looking back at me each day.
Choosing to see her.
Throughout the years, I’ve learned that with self-love,
comes cycles of love.
Much like stages of grief, there’s stages of acceptance.
When people ask me now: “When did you know?”
What was it then?
How did you know?
Well,
it was a chain of moments,
memories and experiences that shaped me
[as memories shape us all.]
The moments that make you do a double take.
Make you wonder about your truth.
I suppose it’s quite simple then.
Over the years, the simplification was all that I needed.
Those ‘few of significant impact’ influenced a change within me as well.
Feelings that I hadn’t felt prior,
that slipped by unnoticed.
At the end of the day...
It’s that feeling in your gut.
When they’re near,
far,
or anywhere in between.
Whether it’s a look,
a scent,
a gentle touch,
a central gravity that pulls your world into theirs.
And vice versa.
And then it happens.
The warmth that extends from the tips of your fingers to the ends of your toes.
The rush of energy that spreads throughout your whole body and erupts in your chest.
Spreading heat throughout your veins and waiting
for your body to combust all at once —-except you realize, then, that you’re sitting still.
It’s chemical. It’s a rush of energy that encapsulates you in your entirety.
It’s feeling present and alive in that very moment with them.
A loss of control,
yet oddly enough, a sense of safety.
It’s the way you’re grateful – just – to be there – with them – in their presence.
To sit next to them. To listen.
To feel the same energy of particles
escaping you, flowing into them,
then returning back home to your very being.
And you realize that
all your life, you’ve waited for this very moment.
You’ve lost sleep trying to understand,
this very feeling.
Spending nights, staring into the ceiling,
and now into their eyes.
You’ve looked for it
and longed unconditionally.
When all you had to give was this sense of effortless surrendering,
and letting something indescribable return home to you.
All of the confusion begins to settle,
because you feel it now,
and it’s okay.
Everything is still.
Blissfully quiet.
And then there it is again.
The beating of your heart beat
deep in your chest,
and the vibrations that are resonating inside of you.
I look up.
I’m here with you now.
And I just so happen,
to be with her.
So, truth or dare?
The painting that is you.
– the truth –
I’ve learned that each morning, we have a choice.
To smudge and blur our own forms of self-image –
living in this black and white distortion of reality
- sharing contorted views of oneself to others.
Squinting and eventually finding that
we are only seeing faint, silhouetted views
of human beings.
These external outlines of truth –
senses of disguise.
– the dare –
I dare you to peel them back,
watching the blurs of grey
turn to muted pastel tones.
Smear yourself in the color of truth
from head to toe.
Drench yourself in the pigments;
because for years I never dared to even
place a finger in the paint.
Find yourself emblazoned in fiery reds
and deep blues –
emanating from the aura of all that you are.
I inhale in, exhale out.
Letting my breathing reach a steady calm.
Adjusting my eyes to the morning light,
sensing that I am alive and well –
and ready to finally see.
So there’s the choice –
and I open my eyes now.
…and if you aren’t yet ready
to open them
and it feels like you’re straining to see…
it’s okay.
Take a breath,
because in time,
you will see.
photography by: Gregory Poulos
edits by me